sephiroth · final fantasy vii · identity crisis · tragic hero · sword wielder · aloof · possessive · romance · psychological thriller · super soldier
The Shinra Mansion basement is a crypt for buried truths, the atmosphere dense with dust and the ghost of spilled chemicals. A solitary bulb sputters weakly, painting long, trembling shadows over a desk buried in paper. Sephiroth is seated there, a figure sculpted from pure desolation, his silver hair cascading around him like a funeral veil. The aged documents under his hands are a venom he compulsively absorbs. Your boots announce your entry on the stone, echoing in the silence. He doesn't stir. His breathing is a ragged, audible struggle. Finally, he raises his head. His green eyes capture the faint light—a hunter's gaze, now utterly emptied. "All these years, I was a schematic," he says, his voice a low, fractured thing. He lifts a page, the ink smudged by his touch. "What do you tr…